


Tell Her About It

by PeachGO3



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Hellhounds, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: Juliet has whelped, and her litter of seven Hellhound puppies is far too much for Crowley to handle. Maybe Bobby Singer can help.





	Tell Her About It

**Author's Note:**

> What the fuck! I realized I haven’t posted this little one yet! Enjoy! ♡

The one with the cocked ear kept chasing after that smaller pup. Crowley sighed and picked up the rowdy. “Listen, I know it’s all good fun you,” he began, but that beast couldn’t hold still and shook as if he’d been stung by an adder. “Or possibly it’s not,” Crowley sighed and dropped him at the other end of the room.

“Sir, this one’s urinating on the blanket again,” he heard a servant say, and turned to scold the shivering pup, but then he figured – whatever.

“Get out of my sight,” he ordered, and the servant left in a hurry.

As the rowdy pup pitched into his usual victim, Crowley turned to Juliet, sighing. She carried a pup by the hackles. New to motherhood, she was. “I love you so much darling,” Crowley said and patted her back. “But that brood of yours is giving me hell.”

His loyal Hellhound had whelped, and seven tykes was more than his servants could ever handle. Hell, even he himself couldn’t handle them. Lousy pack. He had tried. The first week was okay, because the puppies had just been a bunch of hairless moles back then. But now…

Back on his throne, Crowley rubbed his face. He was tired. “Maybe we should try for a dogsitter,” one of his demons suggested carefully.

“A dogsitter?” Crowley repeated. The servant nodded hopeful.

“A dogsitter for a bunch of blood-drinking, heavily fanged, four-eyed Hounds from Hell?”

“Just a thought,” the servant whispered, but Crowley was done and rose his arm to turn this nag into a pile of dust. “A dozen stupid demons couldn’t take care of these fuckers. They come after the damned, they tear bodies apart with their razor-like claws and drag lost souls into Hell! And you what some ordinary undergrad to _dogsit_ them?”

“With all due respect, sir,” another servant said, “they’re still puppies. Maybe someone who has experience in taking care of dogs could look after them.”

Crowley blinked and stilled his arm.

“Think about it,” the servant said carefully, “when they’re still young, they’re not so different from regular dogs. You’ve seen them.”

“They drink blood,” another one murmured in disgust, but somehow, this made sense. If there was a person who was familiar and not instantly freaked out by the supernatural (or the actual existence of Hell), who also knew how to take care of dogs, then…

“Why, there certainly is someone who fits that job description,” Crowley smiled and shoved his servants aside to return to the dog’s room. “Juliet!” he called. His Hellhound growled happily. He patted her and eyed the drinking pups. “Come on, girl. We’re going on a pleasure trip.”

Bobby Singer was reading the newspaper when Crowley appeared in his kitchen.

“What the hell!”

“Hello, Robert. Good to see you too. Sorry about that coffee.”

Singer sighed and closed his eyes. “For cryin’ out loud… What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to insert an advertisement,” Crowley said and strolled around the kitchen, but he kept an eye on Singer. You could never know when this veteran hunter pulled out a rifle from under the table.

“A what?” Singer’s face was irritated, but not more than usual. Crowley restrained himself from staring at his lips. He wore a comfy shirt and no shoes, so clearly he hasn’t been expecting anyone on this rainy day. “You know what,” he said and stood up without letting Crowley explain himself. “I don’t care what you’re planning next, just get the fuck outta my house.”

Juliet growled and bared her teeth, making Singer flinch. “Shit! Is that-”

“Easy, girl, easy,” Crowley smiled. He tickled her ear to calm her down. Sometimes he forgot how crazy patting a Hellhound must seem when you couldn’t actually see it. “I didn’t do anything,” Singer murmured, eyes wide. He was terrified.

“Robert, how old was Rumsfeld when you got him?” Crowley asked as casually as possible.

“Rumsfeld? Err, he’s long gone. Found him on the road when he was a pup. What’s that got to do with-” He stopped in irritation and squinted his eyes.

Crowley chuckled. “Perfect. Would you come outside with me?”

* * *

Outside of his house, but just far away enough from the cars in the yard, there was an iron compound, seemingly empty. It was still pouring, so Bobby clutched his jacket tighter as he stepped closer. He could hear little growls and, now that he concentrated, he could see the grass skewing and heard mud splashing, as if little paws walked over it. “No way,” he blurted out, but Crowley just smiled at him. There was a rushing sound as Crowley’s Hellhound jumped over the compound. Bobby heard the little ones, they yapped.

So, this was the reason that asshole came here again. Bobby adjusted his composure to brace himself for arguing with him. “They can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for a start, I can’t fucking see them. I did not make a crossroads deal.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem, Robert. I can arrange it without you having to sell your precious soul,” Crowley smiled with the face of a businessman. Bobby sighed. “If you can’t take care of them, don’t get them in the first place,” he said, scolding.

Crowley’s mouth curled downward. “I did not ‘get them’. My dog got pregnant.”

“Takes two,” Bobby laughed bitterly. He shivered from the cold night’s rain.

“Listen,” Crowley said with a low voice. Now he was getting serious. “I cannot take care of them alone anymore. If we could split them…”

“No,” Bobby said instantly.  
“There’s worse things than having the King of Hell in your dept,” Crowley purred.

Bobby huffed. That was true. But Crowley was no man of his word. “There’s more to it, isn’t there? You run hell, you could easily take care of a few puppies. Tell me the real reason you came here,” he said.

Crowley raised his eyebrows and smiled knowingly, but he did not say anything, as if Bobby already knew the answer. He shivered and clutched his jacket tighter. One puppy barked.

“How many are there?” he asked.

“Seven.”

“And you said ‘split’, right?”

“I did.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“A good decision,” Crowley smiled and patted Bobby’s shoulder. It was unfamiliar to see the demon soaking wet, hair in his face, smile all… tender?

“Thank you, Robert.”

With these words, they were back inside. Bobby shook himself. Great, now the compound was in his kitchen. And his eyes widened. The big Hellhound was hovering right beside his table, four red eyes burning into his skull. She snarled.

“Juliet, stay.”

“She’s fucking horrifying,” Bobby breathed as he looked at the puppies – smaller, more clumsy versions of their pitch-black mum.

“She’s a Hellhound, she has to look horrifying,” Crowley said simply. “Well, I’m giving you the benefit of choosing. Which ones do you want? Although, we definitely have to separate those two buggers.”

“Which ones?”

“These,” said Crowley as he stepped closer and pulled one puppy away from another, smaller one. “This one’s a rowdy,” Crowley explained as he held up the monster by his neck. Bobby grimaced. That thing almost looked like regular black-furred pup, except it had four red eyes and fangs that looked like small daggers.

“You can recognize him by his cocked ear,” Crowley said absently and wanted to hand it over to Bobby, who threw his hands up in defense. “Woah, no!” he went.

“What?” For a split second, Crowley looked genuinely confused. The demon blinked. Just a few minutes in, and he’d already gotten way to comfortable with the idea of Bobby being his dogs’ foster father. Great.

“Right. You’ll get used to him,” he said instead.

“We’ll see about that,” Bobby replied skeptically. “So he’s a rowdy boy, heh? What’s his name?”

Crowley blinked.

“Oh, yeah, of course you’d give them no names,” Bobby said, but Crowley would not stand for that. “Mercutio,” he blurted out, “his name’s Mercutio.”

Bobby snorted and felt his mouth curl in a smile. “Shakespeare?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, as if it was the most natural thing to do. Mercutio was still in his grip now.

There were a few moments of silence between the men.

“Hand him over,” Bobby sighed.

The next days were tough. Bobby did not want anyone to know about the three monsters he now had in his care. He was lucky that no one could see them. Mercutio’s favorite victim, his older brother Alexas, was with Crowley, and the rowdy pup made no advances to take his energy out on his other siblings. That may be due to the fact that Ophelia was here, too. She was the oldest and biggest of the pups, maybe he was intimidated by her. The last puppy that Bobby had gotten was the youngest one. He did not do much besides sleeping all day.

“You can give him a name,” Crowley had offered, and Bobby had thought long and hard about that. It may be a cute puppy, but it would grow up to become a bloodthirsty Hellhound.

Speaking of it, the blood was a problem. Apparently Hellhounds fed on it. It was disgusting, and Bobby was more than relieved to learn that they did not need that much of it once they had drunk. Crowley had left him a supply of blood. Bobby did not ask questions.

The demon visited once in a while to look after the three pups. “Are they doing well? Vivid?”

“Yes,” Bobby said with bags under his eyes. Those monsters kept depriving him from his sleep.

“Err, say, are they dewormed?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“The dogs, Crowley,” Bobby said, and finally the demons looked at his face, the usual smug smile returning to it. “Dewormed? Robert, no worm on this earth would dare touch these beasts.”

“Okay then, just asking, Jesus Christ,” Bobby growled. He was annoyed.

Just then, the smallest pup stumbled over and just stayed on the ground. “Oh, Butterfingers, get up,” Bobby said and got on his knees to turn the small dog over. Their fur was exceptionally soft, Bobby was pleasantly surprised about that. The dog enjoyed having his drooping eyes caressed. Bobby’s bliss was ripped apart by Crowley’s snort. “Butterfingers? Do you just call him that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bobby replied, “that’s his name.”

He practically heard Crowley smirk. “That’s the name you decided on?”

“I know it’s not your kind of niveau, but don’t mock me, okay?” Bobby growled, but when he looked up, he found the demon genuinely laughing, brows furrowed and teeth flashing. Wow. What an unusual sight.

“They need exercise,” Bobby murmured, “I’ll take them on a walk tomorrow, I just need some leashes.”

“You can have those, so you can go now,” Crowley said and made three dog leashes appear out of nowhere, complete with little collars at the end.

“Oh. Good. Thanks,” Bobby murmured. One after another, he got the pups ready to take their first walk. He then got his jacket. “It will look pretty weird for other people,” Crowley warned him jokingly as Bobby was about to leave. The pups barked in excitement.

“Yeah, don’t think I’ve never thought about that. I’ll walk around the park, no one’s there.”

“All right.”

There was a pause.

“Can I join you, Robert?”

Bobby faltered. “What?”

Crowley closed his mouth, hands in his pockets, but his eyes persisted. _Please say yes._

“Fine with me,” Bobby said naturally, “but what about the others? Back in hell?”

“No worries, my servants and Juliet are taking care of them. Let’s go.” Crowley smiled as he opened the door. Bobby raised his eyebrows and couldn’t help but snicker. “You’re acting all lovey-dovey,” he noted, hoping it would throw off the demon, but Crowley just replied, “Can you blame me, darling?”

As the took a walk in the sunny park, mostly wordless, Bobby thought about that answer and the strange way Crowley behaved the last days. Everything indicated that he… He couldn’t be possibly in love, surely. He was a demon.

Mercutio, Ophelia and Butterfingers had fun outside, they played with one another in the orange leaves on the ground, and Bobby could not help but think how domestic he suddenly was with the King of Hell. Strolling around with him all casually, side by side on a Sunday afternoon. Hm.

And then they talked about the weather. Could you get any more clichéd? “Still warm outside. I like autumn. Season of spirits,” Crowley said and looked at Bobby with tender eyes.

“Figures,” Bobby just said. And then they were quiet again, saying nothing to each other, as if they were not hunter and demon, hereditary enemies, meant to hate each other. As if they were not walking three Hellhound puppies. But Bobby found himself to be strangely okay with Crowley’s presence. He wanted to be outraged, but he couldn’t. At least Crowley helped him understand the dogs better…

“Rather practical that they don’t have to be house-trained, don’t you think?” Crowley eventually said.

Bobby snorted. So this was this demon’s poor attempt in starting a conversation. “Very practical, yes,” he said.

“They weren’t always like that. Kept urinating in their home back in hell. But that reclines each day, they aren’t ordinary animals after all.”

“They’re fucking Hellhounds,” Bobby said and stopped. He’s had enough, this was ridiculous. Crowley stopped as well and looked at him. His face was so much softer than before. Bobby sighed. “Do you want to tell me something?” he asked with all the compose he could muster.

Crowley didn’t move. Did he just freeze?

The pups tugged at their leashes, but Bobby stayed where he was.

After a few seconds, Crowley exhaled and looked down. “Bobby Singer,” he said, “why do I have the feeling that you look right through me?”

“Well, you’re not exactly being subtle.”

“I never am,” the demon purred, the usual smug smile back on his face. And he was gone. Bobby huffed. “Okay then, asshole,” he called after him, into nothingness. He was alone now. And kind of shocked to feel this unrest in his chest. What did he hope for? That Crowley told him he…?

Ophelia barked and looked at him with attentive red eyes. She sat down as if to scold him. Yeah, she probably scolded him. “You’re right,” Bobby sighed. Suddenly, he felt very tired. “Let’s go home.”

But the return home would be difficult. Marcy Ward, his neighbor, just returned from Bobby’s house. With a frown on her face. Bobby cursed and hid behind a car. What should he do? Marcy could not see the dogs. If only they weren’t Hellhounds, for fucks sake.

He took one pup after another and deposited inside the wreckage. “Stay inside,” he whispered and pointed to Ophelia when he added, “Keep the boys under control!” Butterfingers was already falling down into the legroom.

Just then, Marcy passed him by. “Hey,” he said casually and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Oh, Bobby, there you are,” she smiled. She was wearing the neat shirt again, with the laces. Bobby smiled. But suddenly, there was a rumble in the car. “What’s that?” she asked, worried.

“Just some raccoon, probably,” Bobby lied.

“I see. Nasty little beasts. Is that why you got the dog?” she asked, friendly as always. “D-dog?” Bobby replied and scratched his head. “I don’t have a dog. Had one, a long time ago. I don’t have a dog.”

“Oh, really? I’m sure I heard some barking the other day.”

More rumble.

“That would’ve been my friend’s dog,” Bobby said nervously. He tried to guide Marcy away from the old car and to the gate. “Mr. Turner you mean?” she asked.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Ahh, I see. He’s a gent.”

Bobby wiggled back and forth, waiting for her to leave. “Was there anything special you needed help with?” he asked politely. “Actually I just wanted to ask whether you would fancy coming over for a coffee or so, and maybe bring the dog,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I love dogs. In fact, I wanted to get one myself. Someday.”

Bobby frowned. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Her face lit up, but not without caution. “We could still have coffee,” she suggested.

Bobby sighed, but internally, he screamed. He wanted to have that coffee very badly. “I’m not free, actually,” he uttered, and Marcy nodded. “You’re a busy man. Hit me up when you’ve got time,” she said.

“Will do,” Bobby said and watched her leave.

Fuck.

He waited a few minutes and returned to the car to collect the pups. Luckily they hadn’t run away. “There you are,” Bobby grunted as he fished for Butterfingers. All of them were dusty and dirty. Bobby sighed as they looked at him with their pink tongues sticking out. Twelve red eyes, watching his every move. Glowing.

But he couldn’t help himself – they were cute. Kind of. He was a dog person.

He took off his cap to rub his face and sigh. He was tired. Patting Butterfingers, he said, “Come on in, folks. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

After his flight, Crowley was back on his throne and caressed Beatrice. He was holding her in his arms and watched Juliet and the other three pups feed on the bloody meat he just threw to their feet. He had ordered his servants to go. He wanted to be alone.

Beatrice yapped in his arm. Crowley looked down. “What is it, hm? You just had something to eat, you don’t need more.”

She shifted.

“I know, that’s probably not what you were barking about,” Crowley sighed and looked into her red eyes. Beatrice had lovely eyes. They were not as glowing, but they were a nice shade of red. She yapped again. “I know,” Crowley said, a bit too harsh. “I know,” he repeated, “I know, I know. But you can hardly blame me for being stodgy with feelings, I’m a demon. I’m the King of Hell.”

He heard Juliet growl from a distance.

“Hey,” he scolded her. “It’s not you guys’ business anyway. Once your siblings are old enough to obey orders and take souls, we won’t be hearing from Robert Singer anymore.”

Content with these words, he leaned back. Beatrice did not buy it. “You look right through me, and you’re annoying!” he snapped, and all dogs looked at him. Bloody hell. “What do you want me to do, just go up there and tell him about it?”

Crowley blinked. Then he swallowed and put Beatrice to the ground. “Sorry for yelling, my dears,” he murmured. His chest hurt. Before he could tell Singer about how he felt, he had to tell it to himself, and there was no way he would ever admit to it.

He shook his head. This had to stop. “I’ll visit the old man and get your siblings.” And he was gone.

* * *

Bobby was playing fetch with Mercutio outside his house and threw a little stick for him. That boy had a lot of energy to spent, but Bobby did not mind. He enjoyed the last rays of sunlight. Just when he thought that keeping Hellhounds as pets wasn’t half bad, Crowley appeared some feet away from him.

“Hello, Robert,” he said. Bobby wanted to protest right away, but the greeting sounded unfamiliar, kind of tired, so he just nodded to greet back.

Crowley hesitated to step closer, but then Mercutio ran up to him and barked happily. “Hey, little fucker. Playing fetch with the old man? You’re doing good.” He patted Mercutio, but he could not bring himself to smile. His joke came out half-heartedly and bittersweet.

“What do you want?” Singer asked.

“To take the dogs back with me,” Crowley said as blandly as possible.

“Wait, what? Already?”

Crowley chuckled. “They have grown onto you, I can tell that. But, yes, I’ll take them home. To Hell.” He practically growled the last words.

Singer scratched his head. “Yeah, err, okay. You can have them. Kind of a dick move, but what did I expect?”

“Why do you say that? You were clearly not happy with our arrangement,” Crowley hissed.

“I’m not the weird one here!” Singer said. “The one who’s been acting all strange and douchey is you, Crowley.”

“Ahh, ‘strange’, that’s the word we’re calling it now?” Crowley growled and stepped closer.

“What’s ‘it’? Tell me, Crowley, and then maybe I’ll find another word for it. Or I’ll find a rifle, and then I’ll find your sorry ass and send a bullet up there, how’s that sound?” Singer called. Crowley wanted to shake his head, to yell back into that smelly face and _not_ steal looks at those lips, but now that they had risen their voices, Mercutio was barking, too, reminding him of why he was here.

“I’ll get the dogs now,” he said. He snapped his fingers, and Mercutio’s siblings joined them outside the house. The sun was so low that her rays did not reach them anymore.

Crowley sniffed and looked down, feeling his face harden. “Goodbye, Robert.”

* * *

Bobby flinched as they disappeared, Crowley and the pups. Well, two pups, apparently. Butterfingers was still here and looked at Bobby with sad red eyes. “Hey,” said Bobby and hovered down to caress him. “That son of a bitch just left you, eh?”

Just then, Crowley was back, frowning.

“Awkward,” he just said, but Bobby lifted the small puppy in a defensive gesture.

“Why is he still here?” the demon asked, swallowing.

“Maybe he did not want to go with you,” Bobby said, but it did not come out as harsh as he meant it to be. He sounded rather tired, too. Bobby held Butterfingers in his arms and turned to go back inside his house.

“Robert, wait.”

He did stop. A pause.

“Can we talk?” Crowley asked.

In his dark office, Bobby poured them drinks. He still had some scotch left, from a time when he would drink with Crowley more often to negotiate about souls and fate. He had many memories regarding the smell of that scotch. It reminded him of the sealing of that one deal. The one. The tickle on his lips was back. Sealing a demon deal with a kiss was mandatory, but now he wondered how much of Crowley’s own feelings had been mixed into it.

“Well,” he said as he handed the demon his glass, “talk.”

Crowley thanked him wordlessly and sat down on the sofa, where Butterfingers was sleeping. Once in a while, the puppy snored softly. Crowley smiled. How bittersweet.

* * *

“Talk. I’m listening,” Singer said.

Crowley breathed in and sipped at his scotch. Good stuff. He nodded, but more to himself, and finally looked up at Singer, standing there in front of his messy desk, arms crossed. “Well, you are right,” he said. “I have been behaving differently. The dogs were debilitating.”

“Yeah,” Singer agreed and sipped at his glass.

Crowley shivered. It was rare that he did not know what to say. He drank again. _Just apologize, idiot._ “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m… sorry for how I behaved. Must’ve been irritating for you.”

“Yeah, well. I mean, deep down, I know what all of this is about,” he heard Singer say.

“You sure do,” he chuckled.

“Yeah. And, just so you know, I gladly helped you with the dogs. No problem at all.”

Crowley nodded.

“In fact, they kept me on my toes. I’d even say they’re kinda cute.”

“But they’re Hellhounds,” Crowley said with finality.

Singer paused for a moment as if he really thought about how to phrase his next words. “They are. Of course normal dogs would be easier to handle. But I did not choose a normal life, I chose monsters and witchcraft and hell. I’m a hunter.”

“A hunter, drinking with a demon,” Crowley sang and looked up. There was more silence and some more scotch.

“Y’know,” Singer eventually said, “I’ve really had some development in that regard. I thought Hellhounds were terrifying and disgusting, with their blood and fuckin’ sulphur smell, I couldn’t sleep because of it. But now I’m used to it.” Singer then mumbled something incoherent and emptied his glass, falling onto the sofa right beside Crowley. “I still think they’re terrifying. But I can’t possibly live a normal life, Crowley,” he said.

“I see.”

They sat next to each other, not saying anything, and looked into the middle distance. Then Butterfingers snored loudly, and they chuckled. “If you really wanna take all of them with you, that’s fine with me. They don’t belong here anyway,” Singer said.

Crowley exhaled. “All right,” he murmured.

“Just don’t forget that you owe me now.”

“I won’t,” Crowley said and looked at the hunter. He smelled so bad (he grimaced), but his face was so close… Crowley attempted to clear his throat elegantly but failed. “I’ll get you anything you want, just say it. Or you can save it up for later, for emergencies. You never know.”

“You’d help me anyway if there was an emergency. You have before,” Singer said.

“Guess I can’t help it, darling,” Crowley smiled into his glass. From the corner of his eye, he saw Singer shift and sigh.

Crowley looked down at Butterfingers and patted his small black head. _Just tell him._

He closed his eyes and swirled around, leaning in, his hand searching for the hunter’s chin, but not daring to touch it. “Robert Singer?” he whispered.

“No. No, not again.”

“Come on. Actions speak louder than words. Please. Oh, wow, now I’m begging.” Crowley chuckled, and the movement made their beards rasp. That plaid shirt was so dirty and that smell was so bad, and hell, Singer wasn’t even a good kisser. Still, Crowley felt himself drawn to him. A sigh escaped his mouth, and he looked up, his face vaguely hopeful, but Singer just gazed at him with tired eyes. Crowley moved his hand, caressing the stubbly cheek, and felt Singer’s skin react to the touch under his fingertips and saw him close his eyes. He allowed the touch, but he did not approve of it, not really.

Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed in hopelessness. “Robert?” he asked.

Just then, they heard the sound of Butterfingers falling down the sofa.

“That yelp sounded bad,” Singer snickered. Crowley sighed and lifted the puppy up to his lap to pat him. “You’re the clumsy one, eh? Papa chose a good name for you,” he said.

“Papa?” Singer repeated with a risen eyebrow, but his face was all soft, and Crowley chuckled in relief. Maybe they could restore the mood. He lifted the pup to kiss his black fur as a secret ‘thank you’. “Yikes,” Singer laughed and wanted to drink again, only to realize he’d already emptied his glass.

“What’s with that reaction?” Crowley asked amused, but then Singer gripped his neck and pulled him closer. “I’m not gonna kiss that mouth,” he whispered.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Crowley asked, lips parted.

“A hygienic measure,” Singer said, “it’s just been on an animal’s head.”

“It’s been many other places too, you just don’t know it yet, darling.”

Singer sighed. “That’s the Crowley I know. Always makin’ it weird.”

A smile warmed Crowley’s face. He felt so strangely calm. Sleeping Butterfingers in his arms, he rested his head on Singer’s warm shoulder, and the hunter allowed it, as they listened to an owl outside. Autumn, season of spirits. “Robert,” Crowley said, “I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

_You told him!_

It was more of a statement than a revelation, and Singer’s shoulder didn’t react all that much to his confession. The hunter just hummed quietly. “Think so, too. Told you that, y’know, I kinda noticed. You’re really bad at hiding it,” he said.

“So are you,” Crowley murmured in daring amusement, “or is that a gun after all?”

“You’re unbearable.”

“Occupational disease.”

Singer sighed again, and Crowley closed his eyes to just enjoy the situation. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get up and pour me some more,” the hunter murmured with a sway of his glass. “And then?” Crowley asked.

Singer grimaced. “And then we’ll drink some more,” he said.

Crowley raised his head to look Singer in the eyes. “So you really want me to stay?” he uttered.

“I do,” the hunter said. He was so laughably close. So close…

“And then?” Crowley asked again, bringing a hand up to Singer’s chin to keep it in place. “I’ll just keep you here,” Singer smiled. “Unlike a Hellhound, you don’t really bite.”

“I’ll bite if you beg me to,” Crowley purred and leaned in, but in fear of forgetting the pup, Singer asked him to put him to bed first. “The basket is around the corner,” he explained.

“You’ve bought a basket?” Crowley asked and laughed. His heart felt as if it was about to explode from adoration and tenderness when he came back to the office and strolled up to Singer and clutched the plaid shirt in his fists, because this energy had to go somewhere, anywhere, preferably to Singer’s lips, and this time – he hunter let him.

_I told him._


End file.
